


(he's dead)

by soundofez



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: (Black Star), (Blair), (Death the Kid), (Maka Albarn), (Nakatsukasa Tsubaki), Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, mundane AU, soul needs help and not in the fun awkward way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundofez/pseuds/soundofez
Summary: A lot changed after that night in Italy. Soul privately struggles with an onset of mental illness coupled with madness. He isn't the only one who notices the changes.





	1. HE FEELS.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TexSnavvy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TexSnavvy).



> REVERB'S BACK.
> 
> Starry eyes, as always, to [@reverbmod](https://reverbmod.tumblr.com/) for putting the event together, and all the hearts for my amazing artist, [@TexSnavvy](https://texsnavvy.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Links: [[event tumblr](https://reverbmod.tumblr.com/)] [[texsnavvy's post]()]
> 
> EDIT: —CAN YOU BELIEVE. THAT I'VE GONE AND DONE THE THING AGAIN. THE THING WHERE I FORGET TO THANK SOME **VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE** , NAMELY MY BETAS. anyway here are some BELATED BUT SUPER LOVING THANK YOUS TO: [@piercelovewonton](https://piercelovewonton.tumblr.com/) [@l0chn3ss](https://l0chn3ss.tumblr.com/) [@professor-maka](https://professor-maka.tumblr.com/) [@blinkfl0yd](https://blinkfl0yd.tumblr.com/) [@mystery-shrouded](https://mystery-shrouded.tumblr.com/) [@arialis](https://arialis.tumblr.com/) Y'ALL THE BOMB DOT COM SLASH BESTIFEROUS EVER!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _i'm not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it._ ](https://soundofez.tumblr.com/post/158416666410/)

Soul's return flight from Italy arrives just after noon, when the desert temperatures are already too high and still rising. Soul himself faints when the person in the window seat beside him opens the window cover, and oppressive daylight strikes him across the face.

He spends a day recovering in Death City's hospital, where the doctor says he's sunstruck and prescribes sunblock and bedrest. Maka picks him up the day after (had tried to pick him up from the airport the day before), bearing blankets that he'd asked for, and he swathes himself in the sheets rather than submitting to the sunblock the nurse brandishes. Eventually, a vaguely yeti-shaped creature slouches into the hospital's parking garage, trailed by white fabric and a scolding pigtailed woman ( _They're dragging on the **floor** , Soul, you're gonna have to wash them when we get back_).

At home, Soul is accosted by too-bright lights and too-loud friends. He smiles anyway, trying to ignore the **too-much** that surrounds him, pretending that there isn't a demon inside him whispering resentment. (He wishes that the cat, Blair, would sit with him, because her only crime is that she is too cute, but Maka gets scratched arms for trying to reintroduce Soul, and Soul stops breathing until he has safely plastered band-aids over each welt.) (He barely hears her reassurances, her faintly bewildered _Calm down, Soul, they're just scratches._ )

Barely an hour after he's arrived, he flees into the bathroom, overwhelmed. The air there is cooler but smells faintly sterile, enough to remind him of the hospital, so he opens the window next to the sink to chase the scent away with the desert evening, and leans against the wall opposite to stare, blankly, that distant lights shining from beyond the window.

It takes him another ten minutes to notice the reflection of the bathroom in the mirror over the sink, to re-realize his reality, to reject it. Soul collapses to the floor under the window, cowering, cradling his head in his stinging hands and trying to erase the image he'd seen in the mirror. (The floor beneath him tilts dizzyingly; he presses his back to the solid wall behind him, instinctively desperate for an anchor.)

From a distance comes his name, and suddenly he is aware of Maka, kneeling beside him, gently prying his hands from his head. Her words ( _are you okay? what happened? why are you bleeding?_ ) wash over and through him, incomprehensible through the terror that accompanies the sight of oozing red. (He stops breathing.)

* * *

Maka knows dimly that something had happened in Italy, something that Soul has been uncharacteristically quiet about, noticeable even after the few hours Maka has spent with him at the hospital and in the car. Soul is different, somehow— more brooding, less... well, less like Black Star, who is (was?) his best friend.

This is why, when she sees Black Star and Kid without Soul barely an hour after they'd arrived, she asks after him.

"Bathroom, he said," Star replies.

"He's probably resting," Kid offers. "He was just sick, wasn't he? And he was traveling." He drops his voice apologetically. "We probably should have held off for a week."

"He's different," Maka says, more than a little defensively, because he _is_.

"He is," Star agrees. Kid doesn't contradict her, either, but he does look at her expectantly.

Maka swallows her temper. "Too late, anyway. I'll go check on him."

"Good luck," Kid says.

"Hold your breath," Black Star advises. "If he's actually shitting," he adds, unnecessarily, and grins at Maka's disgust.

The bathroom lights are off when Maka reaches the hall, but as she passes it to get to Soul's door, she hears a sharp cracking. "Soul?" she asks, alarmed. When there is no response, she tries the doorknob. "Soul?" she repeats, peering cautiously into the bathroom.

The bathroom rug is soft and silent under her boots, and Maka is quietly aware of the ever-so-slight shift in balance that it demands. Something in the air feels wrong, feels oppressive, feels surreal. Maka doesn't see Soul right away, not when the curtains billowing at the open window put her in mind of a break-in or a horror movie. Many green eyes gleam at her out of the corner of her own: she turns her head sharply and stares in blank surprise at the jagged black cracks fracturing her reflection.

Only then does she finally hear Soul's gasping breath distinctly from the whispering curtains, finally spot his shoes sticking out of the gap between the sink and the toilet. "Soul!" she blurts, kneeling beside him, tugging gently at his hands, which are pressed against his face. "Are you okay? What happened?" His knuckles clench, skin white under oozing red. " _Why are you bleeding?_ "

Soul gasps, and Maka finally gets a good look at his face, at the red irises surrounded entirely by white. His skin is pale, too pale, paler than she remembers— (sunstroke, the doctor said, but hadn't Soul been in the south of Italy all summer?)

"Get away," he rasps. "It's not... _I'm_ not...."

Guilt bubbles uncomfortably in Maka's chest. "Sorry," she whispers, and Soul finally meets her eyes.

* * *

Maka's apology breaks sharply through Soul's blind panic, because why is she apologizing? She has nothing to apologize for. It's _his_ fault that things have changed, that he can't suffer through his new sensitivities. He tries to explain this, but his courage fails him. He can't tell her what had happened in Italy. ( _She deserves to know,_ he berates himself. _Coward,_ he laments.)

Maka interrupts his stuttering attempts. _I should have given you more time to rest,_ she says, voice laced with guilt that pierces his heart.

 _You couldn't have known,_ Soul thinks, anguished, watching her blink back tears. _It's not your fault._ He remembers the side of himself he'd lost in Italy, and he knows that that version of him would have appreciated the attention of a party, would have enjoyed the company of his friends. (He'd hoped he would still have that happiness. Instead, he feels hollow and empty, longing for the comfort and finding it lacking.) (Instead, there's an abyss inside him, eager and ready to swallow him whole.)

This time, Maka is the one who plasters Soul's wounds with band-aids, but Soul can't find reassurances in him to offer (or rather, he is achingly aware of how empty and meaningless such assurances would be). (His knuckles throb and sting; he wonders if he's robbed himself of an old skill, and finds himself both relieved and terrified.)

 _Rest,_ she tells him when it's over, and Soul retreats obediently to his room, but he does not sleep. He's still awake hours later as Maka cleans the remains of the party, still awake hours later when she traipses to her room, still awake hours later when she rises with the sun and knocks at his door to tell him that breakfast is in half an hour.

The morning sun streaming through the kitchen window is already too strong. He takes his breakfast back to his room and leaves a half-empty plate on his desk before he finally submits to uneasy sleep.


	2. HE LIVES.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _i have been smashed and put back together so many times nothing works right. nothing is where it should be, heavy thumping in my shoulder where my heart now beats._ ](https://soundofez.tumblr.com/post/158329991628/)

Soul would have been a quiet child, except for the night terrors. His parents understood nothing of this: they scolded and patronized and, in the end, abandoned him with sleepless bruises under his eyes that would never quite heal over.

Soul's older brother was the one who taught him how to stand up to his fears, how to scare them off, how to break the world to chase them away. It's been a decade since Soul conquered his fears, though: he has forgotten how to bend the nightmares to his will, or they have stopped listening, or he has been warped so that he can no longer resist them. ( _Madness,_ his grandmother in Italy had called them. _You are marked._ )

So instead of falling to them, he flees, refusing sleep and hiding the bruises under his eyes with foundation. If Maka notices, she doesn't say. (She doesn't say much, not anymore, not since she found him bleeding in the bathroom. Some unholy well inside him resents her detachment, but the rest of him takes meager comfort: better that she not know, better that she isn't bothered with his hopeless suffering.) (Better, too, that she keep away from him, for she is victim most often in the dreams.)

He doesn't feel much, these days, other than the bone-deep desire for sleep that wars with the terror of submitting to the dreams, and any left over cracks are filled with anxiety and that elusive _madness_ his grandmother had spoken of. (He's blind to the abyss where his emotions used to be. He doesn't realize that the abyss is a black hole.)

The world spins on. Soul's days melt endlessly into each other, thanks in part to the blackout curtains he'd installed so long ago, back when he was trying to be _cool_ for his new roommate, but thanks also to his rejection of sleep. (The corners of his room fill with boxes upon boxes of energy drinks. Still, he passes out every few days, during daylight hours: still, the nightmares taunt him with fresh wounds and betrayed friends, and he wakes with renewed fear each time.)

His only indication of passing time is the slow yet swift turn of numbers on dim screens, and the wax and wane of gnawing hunger. (He faints because of it, once, and is not spared from the nightmares: he adds microwaveable meals to his boxes of energy drinks.) (He does not see Maka on his excursions, or ever— he knows when she wakes and when she sleeps, like clockwork, at 6am and 10pm on the dot. He ventures to the convenience store only after the witching hour, well after she is asleep ~~and vulnerable, easy, tempting prey that he must flee from lest he hurt her~~.) (He never sees Blair, either. The cat never scratches at his door anymore, never slips into his room to hop onto his lap or settle over his hands on the keyboard. He knows why, of course, but the abandonment hurts no less.)

* * *

Black Star spends a solid half hour banging at Soul's bedroom door, promising video games and sashimi dinner in a two-pronged attempt to coax Soul from his room. Tsubaki watches in mixed amusement and concern, and finally urges both him and Maka to the living room, and sets them against each other in a Smash tournament before returning to Soul's door and picking at the lock.

"Stop that," Soul mutters, and Tsubaki smiles at her victory: he hadn't responded to _any_ of Black Star's cajoling, not even to tell him to lay off the door. (Maka had done that, complaining about security deposits, though Tsubaki also thinks her wary of upsetting Soul too much. Black Star had scoffed, but he'd relented, too. He always did have a soft spot for Maka.)

Tsubaki keeps picking. "Stop what?" she asks innocently, as the final pin clicks into place. Her hand has just grasped the knob when she hears it lock again.

" _That._ Go away."

Tsubaki sighs and starts over without replying.

"I'm not coming out," Soul says.

Tsubaki presses her lips together. It takes her another five minutes to unlock the lock, and for Soul to lock it again.

"Give up already. Go keep Maka and Star from ripping each other's throats out."

"They don't need me for that," Tsubaki says calmly, already renewing her attempts.

"Stop wasting your time."

"I'm not wasting anybody's time," she says patiently. " _You_ stop wasting your time. Maka's agreed to get sashimi for dinner if we can get you out of your room."

"That's not fair."

"It'll be funny, even if you don't like fish anymore." Tsubaki smiles sadly at the silence that greets her. "It doesn't have to be this bad."

"How did you know?" Soul demands lowly.

"You're not the first person to have ever had depression."

Soul actually _laughs_. Tsubaki thinks he sounds relieved. "I'm not _depressed_ ," he says.

"If you say so," Tsubaki replies, not skeptically, because she understands his skepticism. "Star and Maka are playing Smash, if you want to join. Or watch. Before we head out for dinner, at least." The lock clicks open under her picks and does not lock again. Tsubaki smiles and twists the knob. "So?" she asks, peering at Soul, who is on the floor next to the door, leaning against the wall, his hands over his face.

"It's going to be bad," Soul whispers.

"It's going to be fine," Tsubaki corrects kindly. "We're friends, after all."

Soul looks up at her. "Friends," he repeats, slowly. "Right."

* * *

_Friends._ Soul feels like he's hit his head on a low ceiling he'd forgotten was there— but Tsubaki is smiling gently, like she understands what he's going through, or like she understands that she doesn't understand at all, that she might not ever understand, but that that's okay. (The demon inside him lays dormant and unmoving, even as layers of resentment flake and fall away from it.)

He lets her help him to his feet, because his world is off-balance now, but the sensation of existing half a foot to the right of his body is less unpleasant than it usually is, and so Soul is cautious and uncertain but not entirely withdrawn as he follows Tsubaki to the living room.

The lights are bright after his dark room, and Maka and Black Star are loud enough that he flinches back around the corner (it's _too much_ ). They don't notice, at first, too busy bickering at each other ( _"Stop! Spamming! Thunder jolt!" " **You** stop spamming your floaty-ass jumps!"_ ), and the demon stirs at last, brandishing indignation (Soul immediately hates himself— he has no right to their attention, especially not after the way he's avoided all of them). He almost retreats back to his room, then, almost resigns himself to his fate— but then Maka flies to her feet and flings her arms around him and warbles his name into his shirt, and Tsubaki is smiling that gentle, understanding smile, and Black Star is laughing, and Soul is holding his breath, terrified of Maka's closeness even as her warmth soaks into him.

Eventually, after he's recovered from the shock of feeling almost human, he sets careful hands on her shoulders, reciprocating her hug as much as he dares. "Black Star's pounding you into the ground," he says faintly, and Maka is gone as quickly as she'd come, whirlwinding over the couch once more to crash into Black Star just as he eliminates her last life.

Soul looks on, still stood between the half-lit hall and the too-bright living room, as Black Star crows over his victory, ignoring Maka, who is sat on his back crying foul. The scene is familiar and almost comforting, and even though Soul doesn't feel _better_ , exactly, the laughter and the smiles are irresistible, and Tsubaki is smiling like everything will be okay, and the warmth of Maka's hug lingers in his chest.


	3. HE LOVES.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _smile with your teeth, darling. do not be afraid to show the world that you would eat it whole._ ](https://soundofez.tumblr.com/post/143124127379/)

Some days, the abyss is not so deep, and he can glimpse the bottom, shining up at him like a hopeful mirror. More often, there is only blackness, and on these days, he calls upon the memory of the oasis at the bottom and pretends that it's still there.

These days, he's better at pretending, better at making excursions into the light, better at slathering sunblock on his too-pale skin and ignoring how the hot desert sun makes him want to shrivel up under it. Sometimes, when it's cloudy, he'll venture out to see his friends. More often, they will come to him, filling the apartment with warmth that soaks into him and letting him hover around the couch and ignore them at his discretion (except, of course, for Black Star; but he is incapable of leaving anyone alone, and so Soul is content to snap dry insults at the other man and watch them bounce off).

One day (one morning) begins with Soul eyeing the digital clock on his phone with resigned acceptance that his body has once again kept him up through the night. From two rooms down, Maka's bed creaks faintly, and her footsteps are just audible as they patter lightly down the hall and into the bathroom. (The mirror over the sink is gone; Maka fixes her hair with a full-length mirror in her room.)

Soul gives up on sleep and reaches for earbuds to drown out the sound of running water until he hears her tap at his door (somehow audible through his earbuds) on her way past. He waits until she starts the gas stove ( _snap snap fwoosh_ ) (the sharp cracks curls his fingers into painful fists) rolling out of bed and claiming the bathroom, where he fills the sink and splashes his face with still water. Eventually, after a detour into his room, he finds himself lingering at the threshold between kitchen and hall, humming along with the music playing through his earbuds. (Bohemian Rhapsody. Soul pitches the soprano line down an octave and hums along.)

(Mornings are a compromise. Mornings are a way of letting Maka know how his day will go.) (Poorly, if he shows up, because it usually means that he's been up all night, and only slightly less poorly if he doesn't show up, because it usually means he fell asleep late and will be unconscious until the afternoon.)

Maka spots him quickly. "Good morning!" she chirps over the hissing stove. "C'mon, sit!"

"Morning," Soul replies, and makes his way to the kitchen table, already set with silverware and empty, waiting plates.

"Food's ready," Maka tells him, tilting the frying pan and sliding a neatly rolled egg onto a ready plate next to the stove. "How was your night?"

Soul half-raises his hand. "I started unpacking," he says. "Found something for you."

Maka makes a pleased sound as she turns off the stove. "You didn't have to," she says happily, making her way to the table with the simple food.

"Meant to give it to you sooner. Sorry."

Maka looks carefully over his face. "No worries," she says, and sets the rolled egg in the middle of the table. "I'm glad."

"Thanks for the food," he mumbles. "Here."

She takes the item automatically. "What's this?"

Soul doesn't answer, instead watching her inspect the postcard. On the front, he knows, _FLORENCE, ITALY_ is printed in neat capital letters over an architectural sketch of the Santa Maria Novella Church. Maka flips it over to glance at the back. "You didn't mail it?" she asks, flipping back to the sketch and admiring it.

The question isn't accusatory, but it stings nevertheless. Soul shrugs and busies himself with cutting the egg into slices. "Didn't want you to think it was someone else," he mumbles. "Couldn't think of anything to say, anyway, and then..."

Maka looks up at him. "Thank you," she says, quietly, after a moment of watching him. "Lazy," she adds, affectionately, but the words hits too close to home.

"I have _madness._ "

Maka blinks. "Oh. Yes?"

Soul flinches to his feet. "You _knew_?" he asks.

Maka's brows are furrowed. "It makes sense," she says slowly. "You didn't know?"

Soul looks down at his white-knuckled fists, still clutching knife and fork. "No," he says quietly. He looks back up at Maka in time to see a flicker of pity cross her face. " _Don't,_ " he snaps.

The pity returns. "I'm sorry," she starts, and Soul puts down his silverware and retreats to his room.

Maka comes knocking maybe five minutes later. "Soul," she says, and when he makes no reply, she tries the doorknob. (Locked.) "Soul, I don't know what you thought, but— I'm not sorry that you have madness."

Soul clenches his fists. Maybe one day he _will_ be driven to fulfill his nightmares, he thinks savagely, and can't bring himself to regret the thought.

"I'm sorry that you didn't _know_ ," Maka says. "Madness— it's not a big deal in Death City."

Soul holds his silence to hide his mixed confusion and anger.

"... Kid and the Thompsons wanted dinner," she finally says, after a long pause. "You should go without me. I put breakfast in the fridge. You can have it when you're up for it." And she departs without another word.

* * *

Patty spots Soul first and waves frantically until he reaches their table.

"No Maka?" Liz asks as he takes the last seat.

"Not today," Soul replies. "Sorry."

"Ain'tcher fault," Patty says cheerfully. "How's it been going?"

"It?"

Patty waves a hand. "Y'know, life, madness, whatever."

Kid watches Soul go unnaturally still. "Soul?" he asks.

Soul's chest rises with an uneasy breath. "What... did you say, Pat?"

"Hm? Life, madness, y'know."

Soul's hands lift to his face. "What is _with_ you guys?" he mumbles to himself.

"It's been acting up since you came back from Italy," Kid says quietly. "Were we supposed to ignore it? You don't really hide it." A thought occurs to him. "You're not from Death City."

Soul's shoulders hunch. "Why does that matter?"

"Madness is a real open subject here," Liz says. "It took some gettin' used to."

Soul lifts his head. "Wh-what?"

"Madness isn't a big deal," she says, shrugging. "Kid's got some himself."

"The madness of order," Kid agrees.

Soul looks at him. "How do you... manage it?" he asks. "The... madness."

"I let it have what it wants," Kid says, and stifles a laugh at Soul's appalled expression. "I give myself time and space to indulge, I should say. Mostly, I abstain."

Soul is spluttering. "What do you mean, _indulge_? How could you—? How are you okay with it?" he demands, squinting at Liz and Patty.

"It's not _infectious_ ," Patty says.

"He sticks to his room," Liz adds.

"It's what works for _my_ madness," Kid points out. "You probably have a different one."

Soul chews over that. "There are... others?"

Kid snorts. "What do they _teach_ you outside of Death City?" he asks.

"Nothing!" Pat says cheerfully.

"There's order, of course, Kid's got that one," Liz explains. "Chaos and rage and knowledge, too. I forget the rest."

Soul looks uncomfortable. "I don't know what it's called," he says.

"You can describe it," Liz replies easily. "Kid'll probably know which."

Soul hesitates. "There... isn't one that's worse than the others?"

"None of 'em are _bad_ ," Patty says scornfully. "They just _are_."

Soul stews over that for a moment before asking, very quietly, "Which one is vampirism?"

* * *

"Welcome home," Maka calls from the living room.

Soul follows her voice and the light, and finds Maka playing Mario Kart with Blair purring in her lap. "Thanks," he says quietly.

She pauses the race and looks up at him. "How was dinner?" she asks.

Soul thinks back to the revelations had over the meal. "H-hey... do you have madness?"

Maka hums thoughtfully. "Everyone's got _something_ ," she says. "Mine's significantly less than most, but I have some judgement and fear. You?"

"... Blood," Soul admits.

Maka blinks at him. "I haven't seen any supplement," she says, sounding dismayed.

"What?"

Maka stands, sending Blair tumbling to the ground with an insulted yowl. "C'mon, let's go get some. No _wonder_ you've been so off!"

Soul follows her to the door. "Sorry, but _what_?"

"To help with the madness," she explains. "Doc— ah, I know someone else with blood madness, and they seem to like it a lot."

"Helps?" Soul parrots dumbly.

"Yeah, well— it's worth trying, at least."

"Can I meet them?"

Maka grins at him. "I'll ask," she says, and her grin widens with relief. "I'm glad you're okay, Soul."

Soul flinches at her assumption, because he's not _okay_ , not yet— but he bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile anyway, and is gratified when Maka's smile doesn't waver at his too-sharp teeth. "Me, too," he says, and is surprised to find that it's true.

**Author's Note:**

> Links: [[event tumblr](https://reverbmod.tumblr.com/)] [[texsnavvy's post]()]
> 
> (Challenge mode: Find all the foreshadowing ;) )
> 
> Happy Reverb, errybody!
> 
> EDIT: —CAN YOU BELIEVE. THAT I'VE GONE AND DONE THE THING AGAIN. THE THING WHERE I FORGET TO THANK SOME **VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE** , NAMELY MY BETAS. anyway here are some BELATED BUT SUPER LOVING THANK YOUS TO: [@piercelovewonton](https://piercelovewonton.tumblr.com/) [@l0chn3ss](https://l0chn3ss.tumblr.com/) [@professor-maka](https://professor-maka.tumblr.com/) [@blinkfl0yd](https://blinkfl0yd.tumblr.com/) [@mystery-shrouded](https://mystery-shrouded.tumblr.com/) [@arialis](https://arialis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
